Hey Wetberg's World. This is kind of disappointing that I will only be throwing up 4 blogs this summer. Also, it's been far too long. I needed blogspot to send me an email reminder because I forgot my password. EWPS! Well this will be it for the summer, but you can say I've been inspired by a nice shout-out in "Bunking with Brian", and a crime of a shout-out in "The Way it is". Here's a shout-out to you lib: Get off my Junk. Now, let's all collect ourselves and please, for everyone's sake, I know this is the last one of the summer, but do not get too excited, propose to your girl, and end up lost in Las Vegas and wander around the desert all day. That's just getting a little overdone.
So like I mentioned before, life is just full of memorable events that need to be recorded for history's sake. Life can be WET for now, but some day it's going to dry up. Maybe you're drying up a little bit right now. If this is you, I'll encourage you to sit back, relax, and enjoy a laugh or two as I share a story of how bonding time with my mother went sour. Oh yeah, there's one more thing....GET WET.
I was out picking raspberries innocently at my grandma's house since she is no longer around to pick them. (RIP Grandma). Grandma lived in farm country in western Wisconsin. She has a very sketchy neighboor who was kicked out of the Navy and now hides out in a run-down house next to her. he's about 50 with wrinkly tattoed skin and 42 cats. Naturally, these cats are mangy and basically stray. As I picked berries with my mother, a crowd of 5 cats had assembled around us. I had nothing against cats. I had 4 cute kittens and 3 adult cats who just do their own thing. After about a half and hour of picking berries, one mangy cat got brave. I thought he wanted to be social. The joke was on me. He wanted to be fed. I told my mom, "this cat is giving me a weird look!" and laughed insecurely. The cat got too close for my liking, so i walked into the pushes. He followed. His eyes never broke from me. We had a connection like when you make eye contact with your crush and you look away. Then when you check back in a few seconds, they still haven't broken the stare. Then it quickly turns from cute to creepy. At this point, the cat stood about 5 feet away from me as I walked humbly back onto the grass. Just as I turned to pick a nice red berry, I saw this black, devil possessed cat take a few quick steps and pounces onto my right leg with extended claws! It made a harsh meow as I batted it away like a running back breaking a soft arm tackle. (A.K.A: the way Ryan Grant breaks my whole team's tackles when we play Madden '11) The stiff-arm was too late. The deed had been done. I felt a warm prickling on my right calf. Blood trickled from two gashes in my skin. The pain was not severe, but the result was was filled with gore. I feel for the cat. It didn't live in a good home. Still...he must pay.
So as my leg turned from pasty white to the right half of the American flag, I entered my grandma's empty house and selected my weapon of choice. My dear grandmother was an avid bird lover. She loved her bluebirds and orioles. However, there was one kind of bird that drove the bluebirds away: Sparrows. This upset my grandma for years, and she made them pay...with their lives. My sweet grandmother had pinpoint aim with her bolt action .22 caliber rifle. Grandma kept the bad birds away as well as the bad boys from her three daughters!
As I picked up the gun, I felt the hostility that my sweet grandma once held against some God-forsaken critters that over-stepped their bounds. I loaded a bullet into the gun and threw a few in my pocket just in case other mangy cats we able to pick up the scent of my new Stuart Little cologne.
It was a hot, muggy Wisconsin day, and my fuse was not very long for stray cats that wanted my blood. I went out to pick a few more berries in peace. I gave them a chance. I kept the .22 ready by my side for an emergency situation. After dropping a few more berries into the bucket, I made eye contact with that devil cat. The look in his eyes was a cocky, challenging, and threatening look. He began to pace towards me. I nodded my head and said, "Hello Kitty! Now we go!". I backpedaled away from the side of the house closest to the sketchy neighbor's house. I walked quickly and the cat followed, ready for round 2. The joke was on him. We made our way into the middle of a field of tall grass and stood about 20 feet apart from devil cat. I made the first move. I pulled out my phone and hopped onto Facebook for a quick status update. (Now, I'd probably tweet it. LanceWetberg. Holla!)(Not Wetberg...that's an account that fans like to tweet for me. The celebrity status is nice, but a little overrated)
After my post, I closed my phone. The 2-minute stand-off had ended. The evil cat slyly crept towards me, but I didn't flinch. I dared him to come closer and try to get another taste of Wetberg. You know it wouldn't taste dry!
The cat began his sprint and prepared to pounce. Like a true man, I started to backpedal, and I pulled the trigger. It wouldn't move. The safety was on, and I felt like a goose. (Rightfully so.) I quickly flipped the lever and the gun was ready. Kitty-Diablo crouched and began to run towards me. He was thinking it was dinner time, and that he's be the most popular of the 42 cats for slaying a 6 foot 4, 195 pound, division 3 player. (A trillionaire?) Yes. In your face Travie McCoy. Any way you look at it, he thought wrong. Diablo won the battle of the raspberry patch, but I won the war. Actually, I won it like the US won world war two. People will scratch their head and ask, "Really? Was that really necessary?". I'll answer that question with another question once posed by Patches O'hullihan in the movie "Dodgeball". I'm just kidding, Patches is almost as deranged as this crazy cat. To get down to it, I'll answer that question with an unquestioned response amongst the NWC Basketball crew. I'll tell all my haters: I couldn't lean him forward with the risk of getting fleas, so... The punishment fits the crime!
This all happened so fast, it gave me the strongest desire to spit out a quick blog to the Wetberg faithful. Unfortunately, I wasn't going to be near a laptop for hours, so I slid open my phone and got to work!
When it was all done, I wanted to read it to my mother as she laughed at me because I was afraid of a small kitty. I wanted to read her my work of art with the passion that my recently traumatized self had concocted, because she had been here through all the blood, sweat, and tears. So, I turned up the radio in hopes for a musical dramatic effect from the radio. This was a fail. The best that KTIS and Casting Crowns could provide me with was "The voice of truth, says do not be afraid". Wow...thanks. I guess God certainly speaks in crazy ways.
Until next time my friends, watch out for mangy, infected, delirious black cats, and as always, Stay Wet!
Wetberg
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Monday, July 12, 2010
Buddy Check
What's good Wetberg's World? I'll assume not a whole lot since you haven't heard from me on this fine blog in a MONTH!I'm sure you all read the blog title and were intrigued...Was Wetberg some kind of camp counselor that conducts buddy checks every 10 minutes at the beach? You'll hear it here first: I'm not and wasn't. That'd be my boy Bri-Guy who also throws up a savage blog called "Bunking with Brian" (Holla!)
Part of my non-blogging has been attributed to my inspiration, Mark 'The Shark' Titus' retirement from the blogging community as he decided to write a book. The good news is, he's back after being drafted by the Harlem Globetrotters where he is poised to post many more trillions.
On the note of trillions...(a stat line of one minute played and zeros for the rest of the stats.)...I couldn't have recorded a trillion in our previous summer league game if I tried. We had 5 guys, and I was the most qualified to be the point guard with my measly 6'4" stature. We were big, and we were slow. Or roster was myself at the point, Walt at 2, freshmen recruits at 6'5" and 6'7", and Rob Dog. We had 5 guys, 10 lungs, and not enough oxygen. We panted our way to a 6 point loss to a solid St. Olaf team.
Back to the point of this blog. Where've I been for the last 5 weeks? Beaches? Traveling? (only on the court) Hanging out with friends? Barely...No. I've been taking a five credit chemistry class at River Falls' highest rated 4-year university in the town. A semester's worth of General Chemistry was shoved down my thoat five weeks. It was one of the most mediocre experiences of my life. It was a class of 25 students from many different walks of life. I can appreciate this. I'm all about diversity. We had a lot of cultures in there and a lot of different ages, but only one person was able to get under skin. No, I'm not a racist. I didn't even mind that my professor had some kind of crazy Russian accent. I actually preferred it because she sounded out each syllable of each word, and talked nice and slow, but kept a very peppy attitude except for the time she threw a model of an atom overhand like Todd Coffee hurls a late-game fastball for the Brewers...at a student. He deserved it though. He asked a dumb question...too stoned to think straight.
Let's get back to the guy who got under my skin.
I don't think anybody knows the true name of the guy who got under my skin, but he can be described to a T. This guy was an adult education student. I have no grudge against people who return to school. I think that's great that they're trying a new career, or getting more qualified. The only thing that grinds my gears about adult education students is the uncountable (or are they?) number of questions that they ask. Adult Ed. Students that are being trained in their field have legitimate reasons. Students in General Chemistry have little to no reason to ask a rediculous number of questions. If I had to guess, this guy, "Buddy" (as his white lab coat read), probably got fired from his old job for being the most annoying worker.
About 15 minutes into day one, Buddy's hand is waving in the air to ask a stupid question like if notes about the syllabus would be on the mid-term. Beginning then, the Math Ed. major in me flared up hard. I pulled out the back of my folder to tally the number of questions that Buddy would ask each day of class. Well 5 weeks of class went by and the results are in!
A quick background on our class will tell you that we had a 3 1/2 hour lecture on Mondays, Tuesdays, and Wednesdays, and a 2 1/2 hour lecture on Thursdays. Mondays we had exams, which were a guaranteed hour of silence. I was very diligent to record tally marks for any and all questions, boisterous comments, and pointless concerns.
Buddy was out to prove a point: He loves chemistry, and he is better at it than everybody in the class. We aren't even in the same generation, and we were reminded each and every day.
Here's a fun fact to paint a picture for you. Over the course of our 18 days of lectures, our class got the privilege of hearing his voice over 256 times! For you non-Math Majors, that just over 14 comments per day. That's about 4 comments per hour. (Every 15 minutes) I sat 30 feet away from him in a large lecture hall and could hear every single whisper scream as he used his years of wisdom to guide a young, confused college student.
Here's a short letter I've composed to my man Buddy,
Dear Buddy,
You probably don't know me, but I know you. That would be creepy, but every member of our class knows you. There's even a good chance that the classes next door know you. You could potentially be my father, or even grandfather. When you've got everyone in the class beat out in age by at least 30 years, you should just blend in the background because you're not the center of attention in the class. Why don't you just put in your time, get your five credits, and go become a game-show host where you can ask all the questions you want.
I'll give you some credit buddy. Of your 256 questions, there were a few that were actually pertinent to my education and helped my learning. However, you asked so many bad questions, I ran out of jokes to tell my lab partner. So not only are you looking bad, but you're making me look bad.
A couple more things: Don't show up to the first day of freshman summer chemistry in a lab coat. We get it...you're smart and a big deal, but your tool-o-meter is flashing on red right now. Also, when you wear classic rock t-shirts tucked into your jeans every day to class, it only exposes our age gap. Finally, don't go around hugging the prof and act like it's you two vs. a class of college kids. She's your professor, not your friend.
Buddy, I know I've been hard on you in this blog and letter, but know I don't hate you. Ya just grind my gears. My gears have been ground to the point of being dry.
So there's a solution for buddy, myself, and each of my 14 adoring fans,
GET WET!
Part of my non-blogging has been attributed to my inspiration, Mark 'The Shark' Titus' retirement from the blogging community as he decided to write a book. The good news is, he's back after being drafted by the Harlem Globetrotters where he is poised to post many more trillions.
On the note of trillions...(a stat line of one minute played and zeros for the rest of the stats.)...I couldn't have recorded a trillion in our previous summer league game if I tried. We had 5 guys, and I was the most qualified to be the point guard with my measly 6'4" stature. We were big, and we were slow. Or roster was myself at the point, Walt at 2, freshmen recruits at 6'5" and 6'7", and Rob Dog. We had 5 guys, 10 lungs, and not enough oxygen. We panted our way to a 6 point loss to a solid St. Olaf team.
Back to the point of this blog. Where've I been for the last 5 weeks? Beaches? Traveling? (only on the court) Hanging out with friends? Barely...No. I've been taking a five credit chemistry class at River Falls' highest rated 4-year university in the town. A semester's worth of General Chemistry was shoved down my thoat five weeks. It was one of the most mediocre experiences of my life. It was a class of 25 students from many different walks of life. I can appreciate this. I'm all about diversity. We had a lot of cultures in there and a lot of different ages, but only one person was able to get under skin. No, I'm not a racist. I didn't even mind that my professor had some kind of crazy Russian accent. I actually preferred it because she sounded out each syllable of each word, and talked nice and slow, but kept a very peppy attitude except for the time she threw a model of an atom overhand like Todd Coffee hurls a late-game fastball for the Brewers...at a student. He deserved it though. He asked a dumb question...too stoned to think straight.
Let's get back to the guy who got under my skin.
I don't think anybody knows the true name of the guy who got under my skin, but he can be described to a T. This guy was an adult education student. I have no grudge against people who return to school. I think that's great that they're trying a new career, or getting more qualified. The only thing that grinds my gears about adult education students is the uncountable (or are they?) number of questions that they ask. Adult Ed. Students that are being trained in their field have legitimate reasons. Students in General Chemistry have little to no reason to ask a rediculous number of questions. If I had to guess, this guy, "Buddy" (as his white lab coat read), probably got fired from his old job for being the most annoying worker.
About 15 minutes into day one, Buddy's hand is waving in the air to ask a stupid question like if notes about the syllabus would be on the mid-term. Beginning then, the Math Ed. major in me flared up hard. I pulled out the back of my folder to tally the number of questions that Buddy would ask each day of class. Well 5 weeks of class went by and the results are in!
A quick background on our class will tell you that we had a 3 1/2 hour lecture on Mondays, Tuesdays, and Wednesdays, and a 2 1/2 hour lecture on Thursdays. Mondays we had exams, which were a guaranteed hour of silence. I was very diligent to record tally marks for any and all questions, boisterous comments, and pointless concerns.
Buddy was out to prove a point: He loves chemistry, and he is better at it than everybody in the class. We aren't even in the same generation, and we were reminded each and every day.
Here's a fun fact to paint a picture for you. Over the course of our 18 days of lectures, our class got the privilege of hearing his voice over 256 times! For you non-Math Majors, that just over 14 comments per day. That's about 4 comments per hour. (Every 15 minutes) I sat 30 feet away from him in a large lecture hall and could hear every single whisper scream as he used his years of wisdom to guide a young, confused college student.
Here's a short letter I've composed to my man Buddy,
Dear Buddy,
You probably don't know me, but I know you. That would be creepy, but every member of our class knows you. There's even a good chance that the classes next door know you. You could potentially be my father, or even grandfather. When you've got everyone in the class beat out in age by at least 30 years, you should just blend in the background because you're not the center of attention in the class. Why don't you just put in your time, get your five credits, and go become a game-show host where you can ask all the questions you want.
I'll give you some credit buddy. Of your 256 questions, there were a few that were actually pertinent to my education and helped my learning. However, you asked so many bad questions, I ran out of jokes to tell my lab partner. So not only are you looking bad, but you're making me look bad.
A couple more things: Don't show up to the first day of freshman summer chemistry in a lab coat. We get it...you're smart and a big deal, but your tool-o-meter is flashing on red right now. Also, when you wear classic rock t-shirts tucked into your jeans every day to class, it only exposes our age gap. Finally, don't go around hugging the prof and act like it's you two vs. a class of college kids. She's your professor, not your friend.
Buddy, I know I've been hard on you in this blog and letter, but know I don't hate you. Ya just grind my gears. My gears have been ground to the point of being dry.
So there's a solution for buddy, myself, and each of my 14 adoring fans,
GET WET!
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